


Waiting for Dawn

by tambrathegreat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marriage Law Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:44:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: Draco and Hermione have a complicated relationship. The Ministry doesn't care as long as there are children from it.My attempt at a Marriage Law fic.  Starts out with a slow burn.





	1. The Hogwarts Express

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money from this work. 
> 
> Thanks to Gemini Sister for her help in making this story more readable and less American.
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=amp91i)

Grey and green flashed by with unremitting tedium as Draco looked with unseeing eyes at the progression of familiar scenery as the Hogwarts Express chugged its way to its destination. He hadn’t thought he’d be on the train after the Dark Lord’s forces were defeated. If Granger and Scarhead hadn’t spoken for him and on the behalf of his mother, both Draco and Narcissa would have joined Lucius in Azkaban. Their trials had ended exactly a week before the school was due to start, and Draco, having nothing else better to do, decided to attend. Mother, of course, stayed at the Manor, restricted not by law but by shame and fear. She had endured the most during the Dark Lord’s sojourn at the manor, unable to escape either his presence or that of her mad sister. Mother had seemed to shrink daily, becoming pale and withdrawn as if the Dark Lord and his pets’ mere presence had leeched the life force from her. 

Gone were the days of light chatter and the piquant innuendo that sustained father’s affections for her. Father had turned to drink for succour, and Mother had faded into the scenery. After the trial, she had not set foot out of the manor, even the extensive gardens were too exposed for her. He worried over the change in her demeanour, in the vague way of someone who was equally traumatised by the same events would. He seemed to just endure the days he lived before the start of school and looked forward to more tedium and a type of strange emotional distance that he’d fostered since Father had gone to prison the first time. 

 

Yes, Draco had endured the last two months with rare stoicism. He’d had no choice. His family had stood up for their convictions and they were now strange outcasts, punished for their beliefs whilst still in the midst of their comparatively luxurious prisons. Even father his sundry luxuries to augment the cold and dank of Azkaban. He would serve a few years and be back to his scheming in no time if Draco knew anything about him. 

Yet they were still outcasts, banished for the promises made to them by a twice dead man. 

Draco scoffed aloud startling himself to a sense of somnolent wakefulness. It was pure shite, that thought. It was a romantic notion to pretend that they had been on the side of right but really, they had been trapped neatly in one of his father’s schemes. It was just another way that his father had failed him in the headlong pursuit of power. Draco was aware he had also followed blindly. Not the Dark Lord, but his father whom he had once worshipped as a god on earth. No more. With his father’s emasculation, after the Dark Lord stripped Lucius of his wand, Draco had seen him for what he was; a grovelling worm who cared only for his line’s survival. Draco’s life had come as a secondary consideration in his father’s eyes. If there had been a spare to the heir, Draco was sure Lucius would have sacrificed him as willingly as he had sacrificed Mother’s safety. Draco had lost his childhood idol because of his father’s very real feet of clay. That was what angered him like nothing else had in the preceding years of incarceration, degradation, horror, and war.

So now Draco had to endure, for there was nothing else left for him.

He’d started the day enduring the whispers as he walked through the platform, had kept his head held high as he found that the only door open to him was near the baggage compartment, one that was already loaded with several boxes bound for Hogsmeade, and a door that ironically wouldn’t close. He could accept people’s judgement of his actions. He deserved their scorn, he actually welcomed it. What had brought him close to breaking was the absences he noted. Not just the ones killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. Vince, he missed, but Gregory… he should have been here. He shouldn’t be serving a term almost as long as his father’s for the little he did during the war. Hell, Greg had been scared witless, almost paralysed with fear. He’d only joined because his useless lout of a father had bullied him into it. 

Greg hadn’t been like Draco, taking the Mark to get power and glory. He’d just been… Greg Goyle, a dim lump when it came to academics, but funny when he was pissed and loyal to a fault. Greg had just been a bloke in over his head for the last two years. The same could have been said for Draco, but no one would. He had made his bed and he would lie in it like the proverbial dog. The adults had created this war by following a madman, but their children paid the price along with them. The situation was merely the way the world worked from time immemorial. 

Draco closed his eyes as he heard the scuffle of feet coming down the aisle. He’d welcomed his punishment enough for one day and his endurance was frayed. He felt as if he would shatter if he had to hear one more whispered comment. He heard two girls giggle before they scuttled to the toilet and locked the door with a click. He’d just keep his eyes closed until they went back to their friends, warmth, and relative innocence. 

***

She almost missed the train that morning and it had been next to impossible to find an empty compartment. She’d finally found one in the second to last carriage, a compartment at the front with a missing seat and sticking door that took more than a little effort to close. It was obviously under repair, much like Hermione was after what she had found in Australia. 

Hermione thought she had been anaesthetised to loss. She had thought that all the dear people she lost would somehow inoculate her against the deep grief she was now experiencing over the loss of her parents. She worked so hard to save them, gave up so much so that they might live only to find that her spell she had chosen was well and truly irreversible. She’d spent the two weeks she’d had after the funerals and her own minimal recovery trying to find a way to banish Monica and Wendell and bring back Mum and Dad. She so longed to have her parents returned to her whole and safe. After consulting with a sympathetic Australian healer who was willing to overlook her very illegal use of magic, she had concluded that she had made herself an orphan, even if they were still living. 

It should have been enough for her to know that they were alive, but it wasn’t. Not really.

She’d returned to the UK, to Dorset with the Weasleys a scant twenty hours before she was due at Hogwarts for the first day of school. She had not told anyone about the trip or her failure. She had pleaded fatigue and all of the people she considered the next thing to family had left her alone. Only Ron had given her a hard look before he resumed his duties as Fred’s keeper. It was only fair. They had all lost someone due to the war, whether it was by their own actions or not. The loss of her parents was her burden to bear because she had chosen her family’s path without their counsel. 

She looked out on the rain-soaked scenery, her eyes blurred with tears. She would give herself these last few hours to grieve and then she would soldier on. That was the only thing she could do. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what life had been like before magic, before Hogwarts, and her first real friendship with a Harry and Ron. She drifted on a wave of nostalgia, knowing that nothing good would come of the gilded memories she chose to project against the black screen of her eyelids, but couldn’t stop herself. She was alone and for the moment she wanted to remember what it felt like to have a family who loved her without condition.

***  
Draco awoke when the train lurched to a halt, his neck cramped, one foot asleep. He’d stretched, realising he had slept for over two hours. Longer than he had been able to sleep at the manor in a stretch in the last year. He’d meant to change into his school robes and be on the first Hogwarts carriage. That way he’d miss the students rushing pell-mell to find their particular set of friends or lost possessions. He wanted to avoid their chatter, their happiness that he could no longer feel, their sense of belonging. He stood, pulling his robes out of his satchel, muttering a quick ironing spell over them as he laid them out. Fortunately for him, the train was nearly deserted as he entered the hallway. The toilet was also unoccupied and he slipped into it silently so as not the draw the attention of the few stragglers that remained on the carriage. 

His image looked back at him from the mirror of the compartment. In the flickering witch light that illuminated the cubby, his face looked alien, drawn and aged. His jaw was unshaven, stubbled with coarse dark-blond hair. His eyes were cold, the pupils dilated until they seemed to fill the grey of his pupils with black. His vulpine features had taken on a haggard quality, his cheekbones sunken, his eyes underscored with dark half-circles. He had made a mistake returning to school. He should have taken his mother’s tack and retired into relative obscurity until the Malfoy name was no longer associated with the war. He smirked at his reflection. That would only take a few centuries. 

No, this was the path he needed to take. He’d take his NEWTS, apply for an apprenticeship as a healer, an apothecary, or even become an Auror… anything where his good works could be seen by as many people as possible, and he would reclaim his honour. He’d let his father worry about the family name once he was out of prison. Draco no longer gave a damn about it. 

***

Hermione jerked awake, heart pounding as nightmare Bellatrix Lestrange’s cackle echoed in her ears. She caught herself rubbing the spot on her neck where the evil witch’s dagger had pressed. She knew if she looked in a mirror there would be a small white scar, not noticeable to anyone but those who knew. She consciously withdrew her hand, drawing her fingers down to the necklace that Ron had given her right before Fred’s funeral. It was a promise, she knew, that she and Ron would continue on the path they had begun with their reckless kiss at the Final Battle. She wanted what that kiss meant. For Ron to become her family in reality, for her life to go on in a little more well-ordered fashion than it had the last seven years. She wanted that. She did --but the small escapist part of her, the one that wanted to dance until dawn, who wanted the shining armour and the knight-- that part that rebelled just a little, wanted just one experience that was heartbreakingly romantic. 

She heard the door to the loo at the other end of the carriage open and then shut with a soft metallic click. She dropped the delicate chain and picked up the bundle of clothes she had carefully packed after Mrs Weasley charmed them smooth for her the night before.

Who was she kidding, anyway? Hermione Granger would always be a swot, more at ease in the library than in a glittering ballroom. It was in her genes, no matter that the donors didn’t remember her.

She locked the door to her compartment with a charm and stood, hastily donning her robes and stuffing the spare clothes in her faithful evening bag. Once done she exited the train and got in the last remaining carriage, careful not to look overlong at the Thestral that pulled it.

***

“Fuck,” Draco said under his breath. Of course, the only carriage left in Hogsmeade would have Granger in it. It bore several obvious spell scars and had a burnt spot just behind the hitch. The thestral didn’t seem to mind, so Draco assumed the vehicle was safe. As he paused, Granger’s gaze swept over him dismissively before she returned her attention to the dog-eared copy of whatever boring tome she deemed worthy of her mighty intellect.

He hefted himself up with a feeling of dread, using the edge of the carriage as a fulcrum to land, cat-like, on the seat across from her. Except it didn’t go as he had planned as the seat gave a great _crack!_ collapsing under his weight. Draco ended up inside the box that held the seat with his knees curled tightly into his chest, his bottom on the floor of the carriage where the seat used to be. He heard Granger snort, then cough, as if to smother a laugh. She primly put a piece of parchment in her book and then held out her hand to him. 

“Ha bloody ha, Granger.” He looked into her smiling face and batted her hand away as he attempted to dislodge himself from the wooden frame of the seat. His robes would be ruined by the time he got out, and the Malfoy finances being what they were after paying the Ministry fines, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to replace them immediately. He supposed she was used to second-hand clothes being friends with Weasley and Potter. Anger welled in him at her ham-handed Gryffindorness and he spat, “I don’t need help from _your_ kind.”

“Don’t be a prat, Malfoy,” Granger said as her smile crumbled, replaced by her usual determinedly set jaw and furrowed brow. He assured himself that the lighting in the carriage was what caused her eyes to appear damp. Draco was almost sorry he was the cause of her mood change. “Take my hand, even if you do consider me filth.”

Draco lowered his gaze suddenly ashamed. Granger was anything but the type of person he had been taught that mudblo— _Muggleborns_ were. He had finally acknowledged it when his mad aunt had tortured her. He’d admired how she had refused to break under the onslaught of his dear aunt’s curses. Draco knew that he had on more than one occasion. “I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

She wiggled her extended hand impatiently, the harsh lines of her expression easing only a little. 

He took it. It was warm, dry, and softer than he expected. He’d never touched someone of her blood status, at least not voluntarily. He pulled against her as she braced her foot on the seat box between his splayed legs. She blew out a hissed breath as he increased the pressure on her hand until he all but popped out of the box. As he stood, he heard a soft hiss of rending fabric and the coolness of the night air on his back. Granger slid her wand out of the wrist holster she wore and the horror and terror of the last two years came rushing back to him.

_…the night he had failed to kill Dumbledore… the headmaster’s blank eyes staring into his… the flight from Hogwarts with Snape and the others… the punishment for his failure…raids with screaming and blood amidst fire, and Aunt Bella’s mad screams of mirth… Father… who had always been so strong, emasculated in front of his family… grovelling and finally turning to strong spirits to ease his mind… Crabbe… poor Crabbe, his eyes seeking help even as the Fiendfyre devoured him… the screams and the acrid stench of spells, lights flashing across his retinas in dizzying rapidity… the rich organic scent of bowel, blood and piss…_

Without conscious thought, Draco had his wand drawn even though he couldn’t remember doing it. He had leant into Granger and put that wand against her throat, the pulse of her carotid ticking erratically against it. His breath came in harsh, juddering gasps, his hand ached from the tightness with which he gripped his wand. Granger said in a strangely calm and soothing tone,”Draco, it’s not real. What you’re seeing… it’s over. Breathe with me.”

She placed her hand on top of his, drawing his wand away from her throat. He jerked his eyes upwards, meeting her sympathetic gaze. She took a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. ”Like this.”

Draco attempted to join the soft rhythm of her breathing, concentrating on it as he had done when learning to occlude his mind after reading about the practice in the manor’s extensive library. He could feel the cold sweat that had formed on his brow and down his back congeal in the crisp night air. He could smell the powdery, girlish scent of Granger’s perfume. He concentrated on those two things until his mind calmed and his visions retreated. He drew his hand from beneath hers, “You too?”

“Yes.” It was all she had to say. 

As he collapsed on the seat next to her his knees still weak, she said, “Take off your robes. I can repair the rip for you.”

_Fuck.That’s why she drew her wand,_ and then the sarcastic bastard that lived in his brain added, _She really is a fucking Gryffindor._

He cast her a filthy look but did as she bade. Something had changed for them in that brief moment between breaths. He would have to think on just what it meant.

The carriage started moving with a jingle of the harnesses. Draco glanced up at the thestral that he’d been trying to ignore. He was sorry that he could see it, but he was struck with the realisation that he was sorrier that Granger could. She handed him his robes without a word. He took them, touching the seamlessly repaired garment where she had mended them. If he concentrated he thought he just might feel Granger’s gentle magic lingering. 

They made their way to the castle in silence.


	2. Yule Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Gemini Sister for her help in making this readable. Any mistakes remaining are my own.

Father was coming home.

Draco and his mother waited for him in the formal sitting room. Mother’s hard-won composure was obviously fraying as the time for his arrival came and then passed. She sat on the _Louis Quatorze_ divan, her favourite seat in the room, embroidering some type of intricate pattern on a square of silk. It was an occupation that had kept her sane whilst the Dark Lord was in residence. He hoped it would work as well when Father came home. Draco surreptitiously watched her from his seat in front of the fire where he had perched a copy of _Advanced Potions for the Healing Profession_ across his legs. As the evening wore on with the arid tick of the mantelpiece clock the silver flash of Mother’s needle had slowed and a faint line creased her brow. 

Draco knew better than to comment on her more obvious signs of unease. Malfoys and Blacks did not discuss feelings. That foible was for lesser mortals such as the Weasleys or Dumbledores. Draco slid his eyes back to the text on his lap, a book that he had no intention of exploiting in any plans for the future. He had found out, after a stint in the Hogwarts infirmary as an aide to the overworked, and to Draco’s newly found empathy, under-appreciated Madam Pomfrey. He had done so as part of a new program instituted by McGonagall for the returning eighth years where they shadowed a person in their aspirational profession. After Draco had to assist in the treatment of a particularly nasty case of potions induced boils he had decided that an apprenticeship in that particular field would not be the one he pursued. It hadn’t helped that the perfect Granger was also in his rota and had not winced, vomited, or otherwise embarrassed herself whilst aiding the same case. 

_Of course, she wouldn’t,_ Draco thought with a mental sneer, _Why would she, after living with the Mountain Troll Twins, Weasley and Potter all last year?_

He wondered blackly if she was still a virgin. That thought prompted images of the disturbing dreams of a sexual nature concerning her that he’d had with distressing frequency since their shared ride from Hogsmeade in September.

 _Get it?_ Prompted his inner pervert, _our riiiiiiddddeh…_

Unbidden, the image of Granger’s slim legs wrapped around him as he fucked her with unseemly abandon…her hair splayed across his pillow, the small curls at her hairline plastered on her smooth forehead... the soft mewling whimpers he knew she would make when he thrust into her… all flitted across his mind. He attempted to concentrate on the words before him, or on the ticking of the clock, but they could not compete with his fantasy. He shifted in his seat, aware of his cockstand. It was all too embarrassing to bear, especially over the mudbl—no, _muggleborn_ — swot.

“Draco dear, don’t frown so,” Mother’s cool voice cut through the images of his dreams, effectively dousing the warmth that had spread from the thoughts that had just started to form on the blank screen of his mind. Mother added, “Such expressions are unattractive and will age your visage before its time.”

Even as he thanked Merlin for the cold dash of reality his mother’s attention brought, Draco just barely suppressed a snort of derision. It was always about appearances with her. That’s why she hadn’t divorced Father when his scheming had landed them all in hell last year. That was the reason she waited in this monument to a bygone era of glory in her third best frock awaiting the return of the king of their little pureblood demesne. 

_Well, sod that!_ Draco’s ever-present sarcastic commentator said with a hiss. He was sick to death of keeping up appearances. So what if Father had been able to connive the parole board into believing he had reformed? They’d known him only a few months, Draco had a lifetime of Father’s adroit scheming, underhanded ploys, and outright bribery. He doubted the old man had changed even marginally. Draco had to get out from under his father’s velvet-decked fist of iron. He had to escape if he was going to survive in the brave new world wrought by the death of the Dark Lord, Hades take the bastard’s soul. 

His leg jerked in response to the thought of just leaving the room, exiting the manor, and possibly moving to another country altogether, but before he could act on his rash impulse he heard the patter of elvish feet on the marble floor outside the sitting room and then the high keening of one of the house elves. Moments later Father stumped into the room.

He had changed physically since Draco had seen him at the trial. He was pale, almost insubstantial in the badly creased Worcester robes that he had been wearing when he had been taken into custody. His hair was cropped short, his face lined, and the parole runes spelled onto his skin were still red and angry where his sweat-rimed linen shirt fell open. Father’s icy gaze swept the room, flitting over Draco and then his mother. It came to rest on the elf that cringed at his side awaiting his master’s pleasure. Lucius sneered, “What are you waiting for, imbecile? Fetch me a drink.”

Lucius aimed a kick at the creature, missing it by a fraction of an inch as it scuttled away from him. Once the elf was out of the room, Father seemed to shrink in on himself. He asked, petulance creeping into his voice, “I understand that you wouldn’t meet me at the shores of the prison, but really, could neither of you feign happiness for my return?”

Laying aside her handiwork, Mother rose gracefully, holding out her hand to her husband of thirty odd years. “Lucius, my love, but of course we’re pleased to see you. Are we not, Draco?”

Draco rose and gave a stiffly polite bow, the book he had been reading tucked in his crossed arms.“Welcome home, Father.”

Mother let her hands fall to her sides as Father suddenly seemed consumed by the idea of looking at the cornice over the windows, his eyes suspiciously moist. “I-I am… glad to be home.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. As his ringing steps echoed away from them, Mother gave a strangled sniff. Draco fled the parlour, still clutching the damned nuisance book against him as if it were a shield. He would be more than glad to get back to Hogwarts, no matter that he was an outcast there. It seemed the manor, no matter how familiar, was just as unwelcoming to him now.

***

“You will not, Ronald!” Hermione shrieked with laughter as her boyfriend made a show of trying to catch her. She darted around the cloyingly floral couch, a new addition to the Weasley clutter, as he grabbed for her.

“I’ll get you, My Pretty! And your little dog too!” She laughed aloud at his very bad falsetto, as he lunged forward, brought her face to his, and kissed her with a loud _smack!_ on her lips. He then rubbed his recently grown, and surprisingly dense, beard against her cheek and down her throat causing her to squeal.

He nuzzled her tasting her skin as she sank into his arms, over the back of the couch, bringing her leg over the edge of it as she did. “I should have never introduced you to the Wizard of Oz.”

He smiled at her, his eyes still twinkling with mirth, his face relaxed. “It’s good to see you laugh.”

“You too.” She slid onto his lap. “So, when are you going to shave that small rodent off your face?”

“Oi! It’s a big manly animal! Not a puffskein or a bunny!” Ron rubbed his chest over his heart. “And be quiet, his feelings will get hurt.”

“Sorry.” Hermione snorted. She had missed this in the past few months, his humour, his way of easing away her pain. “When are you going to get rid of that big, manly, ginger kitty on your face?”

“When I start Auror training in January,” Ron said stroking her skin where her jumper had ridden up. “You know I didn’t go straight away because, well, George needed me.” 

He added with a pout, ”And I thought the beard made me dashing.”

She slowly shook her head with a small downward quirk of her lips. He laughed softly and then kissed her neck before laying his head on the back of the couch.

They both sat quietly, looking at each other. She had missed him so much. George had been a wreck since the end of the war. The first few weeks had been touch and go for the entire family. Ron had been there for him. It had made Ron more mature to support his brother. Hermione could see his growth and was proud that he was hers.

“How is he?” Hermione felt a familiar stab of guilt over having left the Weasley’s when they needed her most. She knew it was irrational, but she still felt it nonetheless.

“I can guess what you’re thinking _again_ , Hermione.” Ron frowned. “You did what you had to do then. Family is important.”

She leant her forehead against his, unable to say anything over the pain that had gathered in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her.

“I just wish I had been able to be there for you.” Ron kissed her cheek before she sat up again. “I’d do anything to be able to make it better, Hermione. Anything.”

She sighed and turned her attention to the Christmas tree lit up in the corner of the room. Its decorations had seen better days, but they were loved and cherished and put in pride of place every year, even the ones she had made for both Weasley parents when she had been welcomed into their home all those years ago. 

Family was important. If nothing else, the loss of her parents had taught her that. She lived daily with the guilt of seemingly fleeing to the wizarding world when she was young. She regretted the time she had missed with them now.

It wasn’t fair that she’d had to lose them to protect them. After all, the Order had protected Harry’s family, no matter how undeserving they were. Why had her parents lives been less important than people who demonstrably _hated_ Harry? People who would have gladly been well rid of him if they had figured out a way to do it and still keep up appearances. Why had they deserved more than her mum and dad? Resentment, which had been burning since she returned from Australia, welled up, making it hard for her to breathe. She had felt guilt all along about what measures she took to save them. Was it the right thing to do? Should she have given them a choice in the matter?

Should she have asked Kingsley or Minerva what the Order was going to do to protect them?

It had all been so mental, that time before the war, and she had been so young. 

_She_ still _was_ , she reminded herself. It was sometimes hard to remember that about herself. It seemed that she had been born aged thirty-five and the war had made her ancient.

“There’s nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have,” she finally said. She thought, _Except me. I could have been there for them. I could have_ asked _what could be done for them. I could have done something other than destroying our lives._

“Is it safe?” Hesitant footsteps on the second story landing, and George’s disembodied voice broke the mood. As he stepped onto the last stair, his hands theatrically over his eyes, George asked, If I take down my hands will I need to _Scourgify_ my eyes?”

Ron lobbed a pillow at George and Hermione scrambled off her boyfriend’s lap. “I’ll fetch some tea.”

***

Draco jerked awake, cold sweat plastering the heavy cotton of his pyjamas to his body. It was nothing new, the dreams. He had them at Hogwarts almost nightly. He had become quite proficient at silencing charms since his father’s first incarceration. He’d had to once the Dark Lord had taken residence in his family’s home. The dream still clung to his mind, as cobwebs of fear and self-loathing. It had been the one about Lovegood where his aunt and uncle took turns at _Cruciating_ her.

Lovegood always died in the dream. The girl may be mad, but she had been the only one who didn’t fear or hate him at the time. He’d spent days in the dungeon talking to her, listening to her wild conspiracy theories. She’d made him laugh when there was so little room for joy left in his world. The night he dreamt of had happened but Lovegood had been so calm between the application of the _Cruciatus_. She was so strong that it shamed Draco then to realise that the little Ravenclaw nuisance was braver than he could ever be.

Lovegood was the only one these days who would acknowledge him. She had even studied with him a time or two. She was an exceedingly odd duck, but he appreciated her for it. He no longer called her ‘Looney Lovegood’ in his mind or even aloud and would allow no one to say it around him. He’d come to blows with the Teddy Nott over it. The pain in his hand after had made him feel good about himself. It was the first time in months he had smiled.

The dreams in all their varied hues of horror had started almost straight away after the war ended. The ones about Granger were the worst. In those, he tried to stop Greyback from pawing at her and doing much worse than had actually happened. It disturbed him when he would become aroused as Granger fought and then succumbed to Greyback’s brutality. Trying to escape that particular dream had kept him awake for days at a time, and when he could fight exhaustion no more, they would return with vicious regularity. It had helped when he returned to Hogwarts. He could see the Muggleborn across the Great Hall on any given morning after that nightmare, and he was oddly reassured. 

He felt himself beginning to drift off again and he knew that the current flavour of nightmare, or worse, would repeat itself. It always did.

He stood suddenly trying to shake the horror from his mind. There was no use dwelling on it. Nothing changed.

He slipped his feet into his slippers and drew on his dressing gown, the one that had warming charms built into it during its construction. The silk slid against the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his back. He slipped into the hallway, heavy shadows bearing down on him in the sepulchral silence of the Manor. Stygian memories hid in each shadow, of his aunt, the Dark Lord, the evil that his family had embraced in the pursuit of power. 

He fled down the corridor as he had as a child, scuttling from the thin moonlight afforded through the low-slung windows in the family wing. He felt foolish, but there were ghosts in the darkness. Ones he’d had a hand in making. Snape, Crabbe, Dumbledore, and so many others. They manifested themselves in every hiss of his silk dressing gown, in every susurrus of his slick-soled shoes. 

His father had been to prison, but it was Draco that bore the scars of his punishment. He had to. It was the only way he would ever be able to forgive himself.

***

Yule had come and gone, so had the new year. Hermione hadn’t even noticed its passing until Ginny started shoving her school things into the tatty rucksack she had brought with her from Hogwarts.

The younger girl now sat across from her at the table whilst Molly prepared a breakfast that was more like the welcoming feast at Hogwarts. Molly said,“Ginny, dear, did you remember to pack everything?”

Ginny did her best to appear as if she was paying attention to her mother while she read the Quidditch scores in the _Prophet_. Hermione slipped the rest of the paper from beneath Ginny’s hands. There were no attention-grabbing headlines, just more about the post-war recovery efforts and a list of the latest trials of Death Eaters and their collaborators. She scanned the words, mentally filing away pertinent facts that could prove useful later.

“Yes, Mum,” Ginny answered, with only a hint of exasperation in her tone.

“You remembered all your books?” Molly cast a harried look at the table where the girls sat whilst simultaneously monitoring at least three spells. She made magic look easy. Hermione had never realised just how powerful a witch Molly was, not until she had duelled and bested the Lestrange bitch. Molly continued, “I don’t want to have to Owl them to you once you’re back at Hogwarts. Poor Pig isn’t as big as Errol.”

“I packed them last night, Mum,” Ginny answered before she turned her attention, quite pointedly to a freshly shaved Ron who slouched into the room in his pyjama bottoms and a well-worn Cannons jersey that was a bit short and tight due to his recent growth spurt. ”Did you hear about the Harpies? They are going to be recruiting for several new positions. They said they’d be sending scouts to Hogwarts games this spring.”

“’S good news for you, I suppose.” Ron came to a stop next to a mountainous pile of buttered toast. As he scratched his stomach with one lazy hand, he reached for a piece of toast only to have his hand slapped by Molly for his efforts. He gave a very unmanly yelp. “I was just looking, Mum!”

“We look with our eyes, not our hands,” Molly said as both Ginny and Ron mouthed the words along with her. “Ginny, dear, go fetch your brothers. Charlie must catch a port key in an hour, and George needs to open the shop by ten.” Molly turned to Ron, “And you go put on some proper clothes. The girls will need an escort to the Apparition point and I won’t have you wearing that ratty thing in front of the Muggles in the village. It’s so small it’s indecent. Wear that nice shirt Hermione gave you and the trousers you wore for your Auror training entrance interview.”

Hermione grinned at Ron’s pained expression and then turned her attention to the next page. A small article’s headline caught her attention. 

**_Ministry Looks To the Future: Marriage Laws To Be Updated_ **

“You really do have the best concentration. I wish we could bottle it. I know I could use some of your brainpower for NEWTs.” Before she could read further Ginny snatched the paper from her hands. Hermione tried to grab it back whilst Ginny danced away with a laugh. She said, “No! You can have it back after breakfast. Mum asked us to lay the table.”

Hermione stood to help, forgetting the questions that the headline had begun to raise.


	3. It Was Just a Kiss, Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilliane for red-mousing this on the fly. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

Draco was drunk and he was following Granger with an increasing sense of sodden desperation. Their Hogwarts career officially ended tomorrow and he still didn’t understand just what he needed from the muggleborn. He certainly didn’t need her approval. He was a Malfoy, after all, no matter how much he hated the fact these days.

Granger had loomed in his dreams in all sorts of ways since Father had told Draco his plans for House Malfoy. Draco was to be married to Daphne Greengrass’ odd, older half-sister in June. The Greengrass family had been paid a princely sum for their daughter, and Draco had been bound to her _in absentia_. Father had presented Draco with the _fait accompli_ during Ostara break. The old man had expected gratitude for his efforts.

Draco had been furious to the point of actually packing his prized belongings and leaving. It was Mother who ultimately kept him from fleeing the country. 

His mother needed her son. Draco could imagine the hell she was going through with father. He was so strange after his second stint in Azkaban. Draco knew that he himself was at least a buffer between father’s changeable moods and his steady drinking and his mother’s frailty.

If the Ministry’s punishment had been meant to alter Lucius Malfoy, it had.

Father had in fact changed drastically during his second stay in Azkaban, and not for the better.

Lucius was given to frightening bouts of destructive fury. Not the controlled, icy, and vicious anger that had ruled their family life since before Draco was born, if not before.. It seemed as if Father’s dark emotions were all on the surface, boiling up like poisoned water. Father was erratic and filled with violence. He had come to the point of striking mother whilst Draco was in the room, an action he had never done in public or private. before The only thing that had stayed his hand at all were the runes etched into his skin. Those runes were the only reason Draco felt he could return to Hogwarts to finish the fiasco of his school year and take his NEWTs. He had only felt confidence about his absence because he had entreated Mother to move to the Dowager House, otherwise he would have foregone his plans. Not that he necessarily needed his NEWTs to work his way up the Ministry ladder. The Malfoy’s had hidden depths of wealth all over Europe and the Americas, a fact withheld from him by his father until his acceptance of the betrothal to Greengrass.

He hadn’t thought it was possible to hate Father more, but he did.

Draco turned his attention back to his quarry, who had just exited the library, and was presumably on her way to the eighth year tower which housed all the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students. Since Draco was only one of two Slytherins to return for eighth year, they both still lived in the dungeons, which suited him well. He wasn’t sure of his reception, if he’d had to live with the rest of the students who were untainted by the Slytherin stain especially since he still bore the faint scar from his Dark Mark.

 

Draco watched from the shadows of the vaulted corridor and Granger paused, her shoulders tense as if she were listening. He slid into an alcove beside one of the dented suits of armour that still exuded a whiff of the transformative magic that McGonagall used on them during the Final Battle. He drunkenly closed his eyes willing himself invisible. Disillusion spells weren’t his forte.

“I know you’re following me, Malfoy. I can smell your cologne and the whisky on your breath. You may as well come out.” Granger’s voice was clear and bell-like in the hollow darkness of the hall.

He reluctantly stepped forward, noting that Granger, while she held her wand, was not poised to spell first and ask questions later. The little fool. Didn’t she realise he was her enemy? Didn’t she care for the danger he put her in, just being in the hallway with him, a man branded by the Dark Lord? Was she so brave that she could face the son of Lucius Malfoy, the man who had vowed to end her kind’s influence, without flinching? Draco may have vowed to leave his past in the past, but she couldn’t know that. They hadn’t spoken more than two words outside of a learning setting in the entire year since their shared carriage ride. 

He attempted a sneer out of habit and she had the gall to laugh, even if it sounded more nervous than derisive. “Drop the sneer, Malfoy. We both know you’ve grown beyond what you were taught as a child, otherwise Luna would never talk to you.”

He felt the tightness in his chest that he had carried since the Dark Lord had threatened his family in his sixth year ease infinitesimally, but he didn’t let on that her words had any effect. He had his pride. He waited, the beating of his heart filling the time between them.

Granger made a show of sliding her wand into her sleeve, her nimble fingers graceful as they moved. She asked, “Why are you following me?”

He’d waited all year for this chance. He needed to tell her the things that had grown from her kindness to him, but the words wouldn’t come. His father’s cold visage loomed in his mind, the plans for his future sealing his tongue as effectively as silencing spell. He felt his eyes water against the choking sensation of his own duty to his family, his mother, his future.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Granger was suddenly closer, her hand reached for his. He felt her warm exhalation against his cheek as she leaned closer. “Have you been hexed?”

Upon hearing the concern in her words, Draco groaned, “If things had been different… if I… _we_ had been anybody else…”

He didn’t deserve her kindness. He was a cowardly, selfish, marginally reformed bigot and, utterly human failure. Words halted in his brain as he worked through the emotions she evoked in him. He would never be good enough for the bravest lioness of Gryffindor and he wanted to let her know that he scorned her for that as much as he hated himself for realising it. Without thinking beyond his drunken inner soliloquy, he leaned towards her and captured her lips with his. Suddenly he found his arms full of her lush body, his hands cupping the sweet curve where her skull met her neck. The kiss deepened as she opened her mouth to his. He was vaguely aware of how they both seemed to be moving together, how her body moulded perfectly to his, how he fit her hollows and curves perfectly. His fingers tangled in her hair, snagging on the riotous curls and loosening the black headband that kept those curls in some semblance of order. It fluttered to the ground as he moved against her. His cock strained against the stricture of his clothing as she rubbed her pubis against it. He slid his hand down to capture her high, tight arse, and pulled her closer. She gave a low moan, and then, as quickly as it had started, she broke away from him, her expression wounded, her lips puffy and tender looking. She raised her hand, and he waited for the well-deserved slap.

It never came.

He ruthlessly cut off the elation-filled thoughts that her reaction let his fuzzy mind form. That kiss was just a fulfilment of his long unacknowledged fantasy. He was destined to do his pureblood duties. He would raise the next generation of Malfoys to be no freer than he was. That fact hung around his neck like the unfortunate albatross that the sailor had killed in that Muggle poem he’d read for poor Burbage’s class. He lowered his gaze, not daring to look at her. He didn’t want to see her horror at his effrontery. 

He heard the scrape of her shoes on the rough stones as she turned and her hard-soled shoes clattering against the stone floor as she fled. He stooped to pick up the scrap of stretchy fabric and sniffed it. It smelled of honeysuckle, old books, and her. Draco idly looped it around his wrist, uncomfortably aware that Granger’s scent was the exact one he had experienced with the Amortentia potion he’d bought in Knockturn Alley before his life fell apart. It was another portent of his doom. 

When Granger was no longer visible in the half-light of the hall, he called after her, “It was only a kiss, Granger.”

But he knew himself well enough to know that their interaction was more than that to him. Much more.

***

She didn’t know why she stopped. It had certainly not been the first time Malfoy had followed her this year, nor had it been the first time she was aware of his gaze following her as she went about her daily routine.

She may have stopped because Malfoy was a puzzle, especially since he seemed to be trying to be something other than the prat he had been when he was younger. Not that he had said more than two words outside of their shared classwork. The sneering, slick-haired elitist had been replaced by a person who had been tested and found himself wanting. She could see it and she knew others could too, even if they still gave him a wide berth after his role in the last war. She thought he might just come out better for all his self-doubt. She hoped so for their world’s sake. She wasn’t sure if the wizarding world could survive another conflict. She said, “I know you’re following me, Malfoy. I can smell your cologne and the whisky on your breath. You may as well come out.” 

Concern replaced curiosity when Malfoy refused to meet her gaze a ghost of his former sneering self superimposed over his new bruised hesitance. Hermione’s heart seemed to flutter in her chest as nerves overtook her. “Drop the sneer, Malfoy. We both know you’ve grown beyond what you were taught as a child, otherwise Luna would never talk to you.”

He loomed over her mouthing words that made no sense to her ears as he drew even closer. Her pulse became rapid as he leaned over and kissed her. He tasted of whisky and mint, smelled of fresh cut grass, new parchment, and rich musk. Before she could think, she was moulded to his body. She felt his sharp angles fill the voids in her curves, his hardness was complementary to her softness. His hands tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck and then up to her crown She barely noticed the headband flutter to the floor. He felt so good as he slanted his kiss towards her cheek, his fingers tightened in her hair. She reveled in the effect she was having on him as he ground against her. His hand slipped lower and he cupped her to him. He let out a low growl as she felt her legs slide further apart to allow him access to the places she knew he would feel best. She had never felt so desired, and would give him almost anything to ease that hot ache his want made her feel. 

 

A cold wave of horror washed over her. What was she thinking? 

She pulled away, her hand raised as if to slap him, but she couldn’t. They weren’t enemies, not any more, and he hadn’t done anything that she hadn’t intimated she wanted. She stared at his lowered head, the light glinting off his quicksilver hair. The taste of whisky on her lips, the scent of grass and something that was ineffably Malfoy… she had to flee. She turned, aware that if he wanted to, all he would have to do was ask her to stay, and she would.

The clattering of her soles down the dark, stone-lined hallway didn’t cover the words she called after her. 

“It was only a kiss, Granger.” And she knew they both had to accept that lie as truth. They would never be anymore than their stations in life and their past affiliations.

Hermione slowed her pace and attempted to catch her breath as she neared her destination. She thought she had done so until both Padma and Ginny looked at her with twin looks of worry on their faces.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Padma asked as Hermione rounded the corner to the eighth year tower. Ginny stood next to her. It was obvious the two had been talking, but the matter was immaterial to Hermione at the moment. 

Ginny asked,“Did Peeves do something to you?”

Hermione ran a shaking hand over her hair, attempting to smooth it, only to feel it spring to writhing life. She had lost the headband she had put on that morning to keep it marginally tame. It must be in the hallway back there with… _him._ There was no way in Merlin’s sandy slippers that she would go back to fetch it… not after…

“You’re shaking.” Padma’s concerned tones made Hermione want to retch. Even though she wasn’t as bad as her sister, the Ravenclaw was still a thorn in Hermione’s side most of that year. She and her sister had won the only two Healer’s apprenticeships that had been offered for the year. Results of the few apprenticeships offered through the school had been posted outside the Great Hall that evening. If Hermione wanted to become a Healer, she would have to wait until January next.

“It’s nothing really. I just seem to have lost my headband somehow.” Hermione brushed Padma’s unwelcome concern aside, focusing instead on a fairly flustered Ginny. “What brings you here?”

Ginny thrust that evening’s issue of the _Prophet_ into Hermione’s hands and said “Here.”

**_Ministry Enacts New Marriage Laws_ ** _  
Aristotle Entwhistle_

_WPI_

_Minister Kingsley Shackelbolt signed a sweeping marriage reform into law today. He stated the reforms were, “...needed due to a declining wizarding population that has been struggling to regain its vigour since the First and Last Death Eater War.”_

_The General Register of Magical Populations Census Bureau has in the past noted a decline in overall wizarding population since 1980.Their studies, that were published in the Journal of Magical Statistics before the beginning of the last wizarding war, cited different causes for the decline in the magical population. Cited were the problem of intermarriage between pureblood houses, and the rise of the numbers of squibs from such unions, which has indicated a causal relationship to further decimate the wizarding population. Since the end of the war, even fewer wizarding families have opted to add to the population, citing economic concerns and fear of another outbreak of war._

_Shortages and rebuilding efforts have further slowed the birthrate. The Marriage Reform law is set to alleviate these burdens._

_1 January, 2000 will see the first of the reforms go into effect. At that time, those who are already in marriages will receive a stipend of 1000 Galleons a month for the first child from the union. The second and third child will receive 1500 Galleons, a sliding scale will be set for any number of children over three._

_By 1 June, of the same year, persons who remain single will have to apply for exemptions to the second part of the law to be implemented on the first day of August, 2000. The second portion of the law requires all single persons to marry within the year. Those who are not married by 1 January, 2001 will be given appointments for the matchmaking lottery. Those persons matched will be required to marry within the month of their placement._

_Exemptions will be given for those women who are past childbearing age and persons who have taken religious vows. Infertile couples and same-sex couples will be expected to either adopt or undergo medical treatment._

_Those who are not given exemptions, or are not already married by the end of January 2001 will risk forfeiture of their wizarding properties, a 10,000 Galleon fine, and ultimately expulsion from the wizarding world._

_Whilst the laws seems draconian in its scope and effect, many in and out of the government feel it is necessary…_

Hermione crumpled the paper between her hands. “They can’t do this! How is this even possible?”

Ginny answered, “They’ve done it before,after the Grindelwald war in Europe.”

 

“I’ve never read that. It certainly wasn’t covered in History of Magic,” Hermione said as she straightened the paper out to fold it. She grimaced as she all but heard the former Potions Professor,’s dead for almost a year, refrain, _Not all knowledge is offered in a book, Miss Granger. Use that overly abundant brain for something other than growing hair._ “We’ll just see about this.”

“I actually just came here to let you know that Ron will be here tomorrow.” Ginny offered. “He’s been told by the training office that he and Harry aren’t exempt from the new law. So… he’s probably going to do something stupid such as propose.”

Hermione felt a slight pang of unease after her experience of the last half hour.

No, she loved Ron. She did, even if she could still feel the ghost of Malfoy’s hands on her body. She had merely responded to his rough need selfishly. It had felt good to feel desired. That was all.

If nothing could be done about the law, she knew she would accept Ronald’s proposal because she did love him, after all, but only if she had no other choice. She did not plan on becoming a broodmare for the Ministry if at all possible.She had plans for her future, important things to accomplish before she could even think of having a husband and children. She muttered something about writing a few letters to Kinglsey and then she left their presence almost as quickly as she had fled Malfoy.


	4. Scenes From Two Marriages Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilliane for red-mousing this chapter and making it readable. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

31 July, 1999

The day before Draco was to marry Astoria, she summoned him to a seedy club in a warehouse in London. He hadn’t seen her since second year when she was a seventh year. She had a reputation of being a bit odd. He really couldn’t remember her clearly other than that she had brown hair and was always in Snape’s office for some reason. Rumors about her had stopped once she left Hogwarts. She had barely been a wisp of steam rising from his cauldron once she was no longer present.He’d had larger looming events on his horizon.

He looked about the room, noting the walls that were painted black with bright, offensive words scrawled on them, and the fencing surrounded a raised dais. There were few patrons, and none were obviously magical. He shifted his position to see around a large brick column in the centre of the room, and saw a woman who looked vaguely like the girl he remembered, She waved him over laconically.

She had changed. She was no longer the blandly attractive and moderately sedate pureblood young lady. She had dyed her hair a harsh black that had a sheen of purple when light hit it. It had been cut in an angular and unflattering fashion, made heavy with whatever she used to keep it flat and oily looking. Her makeup looked like it had been painted on, thick and clownishly white, with hard black circles drawn around her eyes, and black lips that made her look more than a little dead. She smoked an atrocious smelling bidi which billowed around both of them in a noxious wave of thick smoke. She was dressed in a pair of black, large-legged trousers and a tight acid-green bandeau that revealed both her meagre cleavage and the bottom of her breasts. A black, studded leather coat was draped between her legs on the chair she occupied. The table at which she sat was filled with disposable cups containing unknown liquids and empty plastic packets that had once contained some type of white powder. She spat on the detritus littered floor as she put the foul cigarillo out on the bottom of her thick-soled boot. 

“So, you’re the prat my parents sold me to,” she said with a downward tilt of her lips.”You’re as pretty as a girl, I may be able to tolerate this.” 

Draco inclined his head, a small tight smile on his lips masking his rage at his father. This was the best his dear _pater_ could do to keep the Malfoy line pure, this painted clown? She smirked back at him. “Let’s be quick about this. My girl’s band’s up for the next set and we don’t have much time to get things clear between us.”

She motioned for him to sit in the chair across from her. He made a show of wiping the seat with his handkerchief and then he sat, smoothing his hands over his own tastefully tailored trousers. A figure bearing a towel, presumably one of the waiters of the establishment, loomed over them. “Two drink minimum. What’ll you ‘ave?”

“I’ll have…,” Draco looked at a grimy placard encased in plastic stuck in a rusty piece of metal on the table. None of the brands of ale were familiar. He licked his lips nervously.

“You really are a Pureblood knob,” she hissed through clenched teeth before turning to the waiter. “Give him the same horse piss you gave me, put it on my tab, and then sod off, Mick.” She slid the packet of bidis from between her breasts. “I’m talking to my posh fiance.” 

The waiter gave Greengrass an odd, communicating look and then strode to the bar. Draco said, “MIss Greengrass, I know that neither of us want this arrangement.”

“You’re right about that.” She snorted and then leaned forward, her elbows propped on her knees,her features seeming to settle into an expression of resignation. In an instant she seemed transformed from the caricature she appeared to be. Her eyes burnt into his as she added, “But… I just want you to know what you’ll be getting with me.”

 

The waiter returned with two cups of pale liquid, sloshing it over the rims of the plastic cup as he plonked them onto the table. Draco reached for the one closest to him, but stopped as Astoria moved to quickly put her hand over the cup’s top and brought it to her side of the table. “You don’t want to drink that, trust me.”

Draco eased back against the chair. He had spent the better part of his life learning to negotiate terms, first from his father, and then from the monster who lived in his home during the war. He could wait for Greengrass to tell him what she wanted from this sham of a marriage. 

She pulled a bidi from the packet that she had been toying with idly and slid it into her lips. With a wave of her fingers, the cigarillo sparked to life. Draco coughed theatrically. “Could you not, please?”

“Don’t worry, all of this stops tomorrow.” She made a fluid motion over her full body as she blew a puff of smoke out of the side of her mouth. She grimaced as she threw the bidi to the floor and smashed it with the toe of her boot. “Tastes like shite anyway.”

A woman dressed similarly to Astoria appeared on the stage, carrying an instrument. Greengrass’ eyes followed her movements hungrily until the woman left the stage. She turned her attention once again to Draco, her focus intense. “Let’s get this over with, Malfoy. I’m only marrying you because of Daphne. I don’t want children, and I certainly don’t need or want your fortune.”

“What has your sister…,” Draco began, but she made a slicing motion with her hand, casting a silencing spell on him. He was outraged at her effrontery, but impressed with her skill. Another wave of her hand released the spell. His estimation of her went up another notch. She knew how to show her power and not make it seem as if she was abusing it. She might be a better match for him than her first impression gave.

“Us Greengrass girls are always falling for the wrong type, see.” Her gaze slid to the stage again, then back to him. She began picking at a chipped bit of lacquer on her nail. “If I marry you, my sister gets to wait for the new law to go into effect so she can marry a person that is entirely inappropriate in our world, with the added benefit that my parents quit nagging me about my life choices.”

“Would those choices have anything to do with the Muggle who so captivated you a few moments ago?”

Greengrass eased back in her seat, her brown eyes sparking with humor. “I always knew you were more than a pretty face, Malfoy.”

She began picking at her lacquer again. “Yeah. She has everything to do with it. I’ll marry you, give you an heir that I want no claim to. Once the brat is weaned or whatever, I want a divorce. You, your mummy, and your daddy, can turn it into a proper pureblood monster. As an added bonus, I’ll fuck off with my Yank girlfriend to America, and you’ll never have to see me again. So, do we have a deal?”

She stuck out her hand as if to seal a bargain he hadn’t known they were going to make. He half expected her to expectorate in her palm as a Traveller horse dealer would do. Draco took her hand in both of his, “I have a few stipulations before we shake on this.”

“You wouldn’t be a Malfoy if you didn’t.” She shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“First, you will dress appropriately for someone of our station. I have plans, and those plans don’t include trying to explain your oddness to well-placed people.”

“I already said this was all gone tomorrow. I meant it,” she said with an edge to her tone. “Next?”

“I take it you will wish to continue your… relationship… with the young lady in question?”

“Yeah.” Greengrass’ eyes narrowed. 

“Then my second stipulation is that you will do so discreetly. I won’t be embarrassed by your flaunting your paramour in our world.”

 

“As if she’d be welcomed there,” she laughed. “Muggle, remember?”

“Right,” Draco said, a bit chagrined that he had been so focused on his own agenda he forgot such a major detail. He was rarely flustered these days, but Greengrass did seem to be able to do so with ease. “I will only hold you to your wifely duties until you conceive, and afterwards, I will… not bother you with my attentions.”

 

“Oh, we’re not having any kind of sex, Malfoy,” Greengrass laughed. “Muggles are ingenious when it comes to conception. We’ll go to one of their docs and they’ll do the work for both of us.”

“Lovely.” Draco answered woodenly. “A sexless marriage, just what every man dreams of.”

“Oh you can have your piece on the side. I won’t be jealous, obviously.” 

He let go of her hand. “I honor my vows, Greengrass, even if you don’t intend to do so.”

 

Her mask of worldly ennui slipped, real pain showing on her features for a fraction of a second. “I didn’t mean it like that. I… honestly wish it could be different between us, but I just… I don’t think you want to feel like you’re raping me everytime you come to my bed, and that’s what it would be, Malfoy. I’m not… the war…I just can’t again. Not with a man, not ever again.”

Draco felt a cold knife of sympathy slice through his own emotional reserve. He’d heard things had happened to those who were different during the war, but hadn’t realised the depravity of it. The chill stayed with him as he took her hand again, this time with greater care than he had before. “I accept your deal.”

Greengrass’ fingers fluttered against his, a delicate, fleeting brush. “I’ll accept your conditions too.”

The musician returned to the stage, this time with several other women who carted various instruments onto the dais. “I think our time for negotiation is up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He rose as Greengrass did, sketched a small bow and turned to leave. Over the din of tuning instruments he heard her say, “I hope we can at least be friends.”

Without turning he answered,”I hope so too.”

***

12 September, 1999

Hermione waited, foot tapping in impatience, as the Ministry Warder Wizard scanned her for curses and dark artefacts. She had just received a letter from the MInistry granting her exemption for the time it took to complete the two year healer apprenticeship. It seemed that Parvati Patil, who had married Justin Finch-Fletchley right after the Ministry’s announcement of the first round of matches, was up the duff, and Hermione was the next in line for the coveted position. 

She needed to tell Ron about it. The letter made it quite clear, as a gesture of good faith, Hermione would have to be married to accept the extension,. Since she had already quietly accepted Ron’s proposal, they would just have to move up their wedding. Of course, that meant they would have to go through the same _Molly Weasley Nuptial Torture_ TM that Harry and Ginny were currently suffering, but so be it. Ronald would be able to finish his Auror training and she would become a Healer, the closest thing she could be in the wizarding world to honour her parents’ memories.

Finally, the bored Warder finished his scan of her person, and waved her through with a laconic, “That’ll do, Miss.”

 

She slipped through the barrier Ministry between the the floos and the Ministry, installed during the rebuilding of the Ministry,looking about for Ron. She’d messaged him to meet her at the fountain and she wouldn’t have to go through all the glad-handing from the members of the DA who had opted to enter Auror training right after the war. 

She felt a large, warm arm snake around her waist just as the scent of very male sweat and the sweet, doughy scent that was Ron reached her nose. He whispered in her ear, “Have you got business here, Miss?”

 

“I do,” she laughed, turning around so that she could see his beardless face. “I got the extension.”

Ron gave a whoop, and picked her up, spinning her around in a dizzying arc. “I’m so glad for you!”

He let her down as several wizards and witches gave them looks disapprobation, sobering immediately. “So, I reckon that means that we’ll have to put off the wedding ‘til you’re finished, right?”

Hermione eased a hand to her hair, smoothing it down to control the fuzz that she knew Ron’s exuberance had caused. “Well, you see… the Ministry stipulates that they want a good faith gesture on my part… so, we will have to marry sooner than we actually planned.” She looked up to see his expression, “I hope you don’t mind.”

Ron took a step backwards, taking her hand as he did. He kept moving as he said, “Do you really want to go through what Gin and Harry are going through? I mean, Mum’s so stressed with their wedding plans and George and Angelina’s coming up. Then there’s Percy, who hasn’t found his match yet…”

 

Hermione stopped, pulling her hand from his. “What are you saying, Ron? Do you want to call it off?”

“Such a big, scary brain, and still no confidence,” Ron said, shaking his head. He pulled her to him and leant into her, giving her a quick kiss on the lips. “No, Miss Granger, I’m saying, why don’t you become Mrs Granger-Weasley today. Here. The Registry is open until five. I can get Harry and I’m sure Ginny could slip away from Mum for a little while so you could buy those dress robes you’ve been looking at in Madam Malkin’s… it would be over in a minute, and we wouldn’t have to put up with all the Wedding of Terror stuff before.”

Hermione threw her arms around Ron’s neck and gave him a proper kiss. “That’s why I love you so much. You’re so practical.”

“It’s my sexiest trait, that practicality.” Ron smirked, and then, pulling his features into a comical caricature of seriousness, asked, “So, do you want to? Marry me now, I mean.”

A giddy bubble of laughter escaped Hermione’s lips. “Only if we can have Thai after, just you and me.”

“Of course,” Ron deadpanned. “We have to fortify ourselves before we meet the wedding dragonlady later to break the news that she won’t have yet another couple to force into one of her official Weasley weddings.”

 

Hermione sobered wishing that she could tell her parents all about how wonderful Ron was, and how she loved him so much. They would have been so happy for them both, she just knew, even if the circumstances weren’t what they would have chosen for her. 

“Hey,” Ron hugged her tighter. “I’m sure they would have been happy for you… us.”

 

She nodded and peered up into his suspiciously bright eyes. “I’m sure. But what are we doing just standing here? I have a friend to rescue and a dress to buy.”

She slipped out of his arms, already feeling the heat of his fade from her skin. “Meet me at the fountain at four?”

 

Ron nodded. “Love you, Sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Ronald.” Hermione headed back towards the floos, already forming a story to steal Ginny from Molly’s watchful eyes. 

She only had a few hours to accomplish so much before her life would change forever.


	5. Scenes From Two Marriages Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilliane for her efforts to make this chapter readable.

September 2000

A year had come and gone with no pregnancy. That fact had not gone unnoticed by either of Draco’s parents, nor had the fact that Draco and Astoria never visited each other at night or during the day for procreation purposes. Draco now knew why his father had such enmity for house elves. The nosey little bastards made no bones about spying on him and reporting to Lucius. 

Astoria had taken to staying at her Yank’s flat five or more nights a week, to escape both the manor and his parents’ growing dissatisfaction with the ‘heir situation,’ as Father called it. Draco, to keep up the illusion of their marriage until Astoria became enceinte, a thing that needed to come to pass so that Daphne and Seamus Finnigin could then marry, had taken to passing his own nights in the Leaky Cauldron. He normally took up his vigil straight after he left the MLE office, where he worked as an under secretary to the head of the Division of Magical Creatures.

Usually he spent his time with Luna Scamander and her husband in his reserved suite, discussing the evolutionary biology of magical creatures. Both had introduced him to the concepts behind the Muggle science when they had noticed him eating alone, yet again, in the common room of the establishment a few months previous, whilst he attempted to understand exactly how laws could be, or even if the should be, changed to allow sentient magical creatures equal rights in the new Magical world in which he now lived. The fact that he now considered the odd Ravenclaw and her halfblood husband friends would have galled a younger Draco, but truly, Madam Scamander, even with her irritating, misty way of speaking, was quite intelligent. Draco hoped, when his sham of a marriage to Astoria was over, that he might find a mate as intelligent, if a little less fey.

Tonight, however, he would be dining alone. He was attempting to make sense of the Stephen J. Gould book, _Punctuated Equilibrium_ , and how he might apply the concepts within to the Elven populations in Europe and beyond. He was alone because it was the Scamander’s anniversary, and they were disgustingly in love. He felt like a failure around them, and not much of a man next to Rolf, if truth be told.

He sat reading the paper, picking at his cooling shepherd’s pie, a pot of tea at one elbow, and his ink and quill within reach so that he could jot down notes in the margins of the book. He was deep into the discussion on paleontological data and what it revealed about isolated populations, when he heard the chair next to him being pulled out.

He glanced up in irritation at the potential unwanted interruption, and then felt his focus scatter as he noticed the sultry brunette seated next to him. She giggled softly, an obviously well-practiced sound, placing a well-manicured hand over her mouth. She said, with an artful lowering of her lashes over luminous green eyes, “I hope you don’t mind.”

She rubbed her left hand on his arm, revealing a large gem-studded ring on her third finger and an equally impressive platinum band behind it. Draco could feel the heat of her through his shirtsleeve arcing straight to his groin, as she drew a red nail across the fabric in a lazy circle. She flicked a pink tongue out and touched her rouged lips. “I’ve seen you around here for weeks, talking to that Lovegood girl and her husband. Didn’t I hear you had married one of the Greengrasses last year? Not a happy marriage, I take it.”

He felt her right hand brush his thigh. He felt pinned to his chair. Nobody had touched him in a more than casual way since eighth year.. She continued talking as her fingers walked up his leg, towards his now aching cock. 

“I know what it’s like to be in a loveless marriage.” She leaned in close enough that he could feel her breath on his cheek as she whispered, “I know you have a room. I’ve seen you go to it at night after you see the others off. Maybe we could make each of our lives happier for a while.”

White noise filled his thoughts as she stroked the length of him through the cloth of his trousers, he sought her hand, trying to resist the urge to fit it tightly around his cock and make an embarrassing mess right there. He finally found the words to say, even if he knew he shouldn’t. “I’m in the fourth floor suite. I’ll go up first, and you can come up in ten minutes.”

It had been too long for him, much too long.

***

He woke up with a start, suddenly feeling suffocated by the slender arm that lay over his torso. He hadn’t remembered her name before, but as he looked over at her mussed hair and smeared makeup, he had a sudden vision of her waiting outside the Great Hall, giggling with a group of Gryffindors over Harry Bloody Potter. He thought her name was something beginning with an ‘R’ and he remembered a dust up about her using a love potion on Weasley. It had been in sixth year, and he couldn’t remember more for obvious reasons. Much of that year was obscured by his terror and anxiety over completing a task he knew he would be unable to do.

He moved her arm in preparation of making his escape to the en suite, and she murmured, “Mmm, love, where are you going?”

“I just have to…,” he whispered back, motioning to the door. 

“Oh,” She tittered as she sat up, exposing luscious breast with dark, peaked nipples and his damnable cock twitched. The sheet slid to her waist, which was marred by faint stretch marks.It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. She pouted, “Don’t be long. I have plans for you.” 

After Draco took care of his business, he washed his hands and face, attempting not to look into the mirror. He didn’t want to see who he was at that moment. Even though Astoria had given him leave to… behave as he just had… he had meant it when he said he would keep his vows. That one promise he had made to himself was his way of ameliorating some of his past transgressions. He had needed to see himself as an honorable man in at least one area of his life. Now that vow was blown all to hell, and he couldn’t dredge up the guilt he should feel.He only felt tired and more than a little irritated at himself for giving into his baser urges.

He glanced up, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. For once the blasted thing remained silent as he studied himself. He was twenty, not yet an adult in the Muggle world, however the lines on his face told a tale of their own. 

He hadn’t asked to be born a Malfoy. He hadn’t asked to have his life planned for him from beginning to end. He certainly hadn’t asked to marry a woman who could not stand his touch in any fashion. He had needed to feel like a man tonight, and Fate had given him just the vehicle for him to do so. It didn’t matter that he had to close his eyes so that he could see a different face, one he had only thought of a thousand times since he had left Hogwarts for the last time. He closed his eyes, once again feeling the way Granger had met him in that sweet moment he’d seized before his new life began.

He deserved better from the cards he’d been dealt, and he would take this gift, or accident of fate, and use her as thoroughly as she was obviously using him.

***

Ron leaned against the wall, his head bent, his pale skin almost translucent under the hall lights, as Hermione worked through the wards he had been told to place on their flat. He blew his hair out of his eyes as she cast the last intricate wand wave. “Thanks for doing that, Love. I just don’t seem to have the energy these days.”

Hermione nodded absently as she opened the door and shouldered her satchel, which was filled with case files and textbooks, none of which could be lightened or shrunk for easy transport. She normally let Ron help her, but he had been so fatigued lately. His temper, friable at best, had been easier to raise. She wished they would either catch all the remaining Death Eaters or hire more aurors. She wanted her loving, thoughtful Ron back, not this shadowed Auror Weasley.

Ron stepped through after her, plucking a few of the many takeaway menus from the folder they kept on a corkboard by the door. “Curry tonight, or fish and chips?” 

“I don’t feel like going out. I’ll just make some soup and sandwiches,” Hermione said as she followed him into the room. Ron shut the door behind her, and with a slight twitch of his wand, partially reset the wards. Hermione grimaced as she heaved her rucksack onto the chair beside her desk. She’d have to remember to finish the warding before she heated a tin of chicken soup. She’d let Ron make his own sandwich and she’d try to get through some of the cases, and would ignore his complaining about her studying too much. 

Married life was shaping up to be much like their school years had been, but with more sex.

She liked that about Ron,that he had an almost puppyish love of physicality. Hermione hadn’t realised just how much of a physical nature she had before they’d been married. Not that she was a virgin before, but keeping Harry alive and then her own studies afterwards had been enough to distract her. It wasn’t like she’d had droves of suitors before Ron. Other and Victor, who had been her first that summer after Fifth year, and that odd moment with Draco, no other males had really been remotely attracted to her. 

Just as she reset the wards completely, she felt Ron behind her. He lifted her hair, heavy with moisture from the weather outside and the sweet smelling oils she used to keep it in a semblance of order, and began kissing her neck. 

 

She arched against him and sighed, “I thought you were tired.”

 

“Never too tired for you,” he mumbled against her neck, drawing shivers from her as his breath touched her skin. His stomach growled loudly as he raised her jumper just enough to cause the cool air to pebble her skin. She turned around, sliding her arms around his neck. With a quick kiss, she smiled up at him and said, “I’ll heat the soup if you make the sandwiches.”

“Done, Sweetheart.” He chucked her under the chin and waited for her to walk towards the kitchen.

***

Hermione blew her hair out of the way as finished making the last sandwich and poured the soup into mugs. She placed a bag of crisps on the tray and lifted and walked into the lounge where Ron was resting. He’d had yet another stress-related headache this one accompanied by a torrential nosebleed, his second one this week.

She had promised Ron she would join him to watch _Black Books_ , the one programme they both watched together on the specially charmed plasma screen TV George asked them to test for him. He planned to launch a new line of wizard-friendly electronics in the coming year. He had even offered Ron a job running the shop, with a much higher salary than he could ever make with a Ministry job. Hermione sometimes wished he would take it, especially since he was under so much stress. She also knew he wouldn’t take the job while he felt Harry needed him. He still felt guilty about leaving them in the forest during the war.

She entered the lounge where the lights were off, the TV flickering blue and silver in the room. Ron lay stretched out on the couch, his long legs curled slightly, the tartan blanket they’d received from Minerva as a wedding gift behind him, his soft snores barely audible over the programme that had already started. Hermione sighed and sat the tray on the coffee table, covered Ron with the blanket, and then spelled ton the lamp. The witchlight flickered as she propped her feet in the chair and reached first for a sandwich, then the first file in the stack she’d brought home. 

Ron snorted in his sleep as he turned over, kicking one long, bare foot off the couch and missing the tray by inches. Married life had its disappointments she supposed, but she could live with them.

***

9 October, 2000

She was pregnant.

Draco knew he should be relieved that in nine or so months his sham of a marriage would be over, but he just couldn’t dredge up any feeling other than dread. He wasn’t sure he was ready to be a father. He could barely take care of himself most days, what with juggling both his secret lives. 

Romi, as the former Romilda Vane liked to be called, was a welcome diversion from his daily life, but he could see where she might become a bit obsessive. He would have to cut her loose as soon as his child was born.

He had just suffered a scene with her a moment ago when he had owled her that he was expected at home that evening and he would not be able to meet her as they had planned. The flurry of owls during tea had drawn his mother’s attention. 

“Dragon,” she had said, her gentle voice conveying her distaste of the subject with a slight gathering of her brow and a tiny twist of her lips. “You and Astoria seem to be at odds right now. I do hope tonight’s activity doesn’t proclaim you to be one of those untrustworthy types of men who don’t keep their vows.”

Draco had stared at her across the delicate tea table, feeling pinned to his chair. He should have foreseen this happening. While his own father had never strayed, her father had been the typical pureblood, with a string of mistresses. He had been told many times the feelings of betrayal each of her sisters and herself had felt. It explained Aunt Andromeda’s marriage to a muggleborn in her mind, and Aunt Bella’s blind devotion to her cause.. He knew Mother knew the signs of adultery, and would bring them to his attention, if and when he betrayed his wife. If she only knew..

Her lip twist became an active frown that she covered with her gracefully poised teacup. “Do what you must, Darling. I know that your relations with your wife are...unconventional…but end it quickly before anyone gets hurt.”

Father entered the room then and the conversation stopped. He was best not challenged these days. His temperament had never recovered. He was still volatile and moody. 

It was just as well that Astoria would be present tonight, so that they could make their announcement and let his parents dream of bending yet another young mind to their pureblood will. He hadn’t the courage to tell them yet that his child would be raised by him, without the bigotries he had been forced to accept. 

That was a conversation for another night. Tonight he and Astoria would tell them about the pregnancy and then let them know that they would be taking a flat in London to be closer to his work. His parents never need know that Tori would stay most nights with her lover. It was best that way for all involved. 

Draco just wished he believed that.


	6. The End of an Era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilliane for making this chapter readable. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Late February, 2001

 

Hermione watched Ron’s chest rise and fall in jerking, agonal breaths. She knew she didn’t have much more time with him.

Agony lanced through her body, emotional pain worse than any _Crucio_. Every time he inhaled, she felt a mixture of relief and dull resignation at the continuation of his pain. When he exhaled she dreaded it would be his last. 

His family had stepped out of the room to give her time with him. Molly had insisted, and Arthur and the rest had followed her out reluctantly. Hermione understood. Molly didn’t want to see another child she had carried in her body die. 

It had been three months since he had been taken from St Mungo’s to University College Hospital after he had collapsed at work. She had been in A&E as senior house healer when he had been brought in. Mrs Foster, her mentor, hadn’t let her be in the room in any capacity other than wife. They had discovered the small, abnormal lesion on his lower back about two hours after he had been brought in; he was thankfully comatose, otherwise he would have been the first to hear of his death sentence.

 _Stage 4 amelanistic metastatic carcinoma._

So many things about his physical state had come into focus at those words. The fatigue, the headaches in the morning, the nosebleeds, all of them made sense to her clinical brain. It was her heart that rebelled. He couldn’t be dying. They had just begun their lives.

St Mungo’s wasn’t equipped to deal with cancer. The hospital specialised in magical diseases and treatments. What Ron had was untreatable there, or anywhere. Nonetheless, her husband been transferred to the cancer ward at University College. The innocuous looking spot on his back had metastasized throughout his body. The overworked squib consultant who first saw Ron added, with some asperity, that its spread had probably been aided by his magical abilities and the injuries sustained in the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Hermione, used to a Healer’s gentler approach to patient care, had bristled, but she remained silent. Kingsley and Harry had both pulled some serious strings to get his treatment through the NHS rather than a much more expensive, private hospital. 

The cancer had entered his brain through his lymphatic system. After three days in a coma, he had awoken and Harry had given him the news. Hermione couldn’t. Her heart was breaking. Ron had been such a huge part of her life since she was an eleven-year-old swot, thrust into a world she hadn’t been sure she belonged in, much less believed in. She sat in the corner in stoic silence while Ron died a little more each minute. She had remained by his side in hospice, and once the staff could no longer ease his pain, he was back in hospital. He’d said no to chemotherapy and radiation treatment. He joked that he wanted to make a good-looking corpse since his ginger locks would be intact. She had agreed with him, her watery smile covering the visceral reaction to his bravado. He had always been one to whistle in the dark. She loved that about him the most. 

He breathed in again, a deep, rattling sound filling the arid room. She held her breath as he exhaled. His eyelids fluttered open. “Hermione?”

She sat up covering her anguish with a gentle smile. “What is it, Ron?”

 

“They told me I could tell you something before I left.” He gasped again and then continued, “Fred’s here and Snape… for some reason I feel safer when he’s here. S’barmy, isn’t it?” 

He paused to gasp between words, his eyes closed and then opened painfully again. “It’s okay, Hermione.”

He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, his fingers glinting wetly in the harsh light of the room. “LIve, Sweetheart. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying the life you deserve. They say you have great things to do in the future. Don't miss out on life because of me.”

He closed his eyes once again, the sparkling blue peeking through the thin cover of his eyelashes. He breathed in and then out. She waited for the next breath to punctuate her existence. It never did.

She didn’t know for moments if the screaming noise was from her throat or from the monitors that had followed his descent into death. It didn’t matter. He was gone, and the life she had dreamt for them was over.

***

Ron’s memorial service was held at Hogwarts. His ashes were to be interred in a tomb on the grounds dedicated to those who fought against Voldemort. She didn’t want that, but Kingsley had insisted. Kingsley knew about loss and recovering from it. “You don’t need to pine your life away at his graveside, Hermione. The farther away he is, the less you'll need to see where his body remains. That’s not him anymore.”

 

As if pining was a possibility. She’d received an owl the morning after his death informing her that she had a year in which to secure a mate and another six months to breed. 

During the service she could only see the last picture of him she had taken before they knew of the cruel illness that was eating away at him. He smiled, proudly adjusting his red Auror’s robes at the collar, then waving her off with a blushing kiss. She remembered that day so clearly. He, Harry, and Neville had just caught the last of the Lestrange family and brought them into the Ministry’s holding cells. Hermione had come to the office to surprise him with her own good news. They would be able to start trying for their family earlier than she expected, having passed her tests with flying colours. It was only a week later that he’d fallen ill for the final time. 

The thought of the time she had wasted filled her with rage at herself, at Ron for not living, at whatever god found it amusing to take someone she loved. She looked down at her balled fist clenched around the already sweat-sodden handkerchief in her hand. Grangers didn't cry in public, not over something so deeply wounding to them. She would hold her tears in abeyance for a private moment. She hadn’t made it an hour into the exhausting process of public grieving and she was already a wreck. She would never make it through a year without him, much less live the life he wanted her to. He had been her rock through so much.

After the interminable eulogy, people had repaired to the Great Hall for the obligatory nibbles and tea. Harry had taken first watch at her side, deflecting any attempts of conversation with her by the press or members of the public. She appreciated his, George, Charlie, and even Percy’s steadying arm around her shoulder, their protectiveness when she fell into silent numbness. 

As the day came to a close and people began to leave, Minerva approached Hermione. She said briskly, her brogue softening her words, “My dear girl, come with me.”

Hermione rose and followed the Headmistress, as obedient as she would have as a child. 

 

 _Some things never change_ , she thought, a small, wry smile gracing her lips, the first one since Ron’s death. She felt a sudden stab of guilt, swift and sharp, like a punch in the midriff. She would never be able to share their own brand of humour with him again. Her feet faltered, but Minerva took her arm, her age-spotted hand on top of Hermione’s as they made their way outdoors. The Headmistress didn’t offer words of condolence, she merely let Hermione exist in the moments between breaths, heartbeats, and falling tears. They walked in the waning afternoon light to Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape’s tombs, the war memorial _cum_ mausoleum just beyond. Minerva paused at each tomb, transfiguring a bouquet for them from the apparently endless supply of buttons she carried for just such purposes. She let go of Hermione’s arm with a pat and a watery smile. They both had regrets, that much was obvious. 

Hermione let her feet guide her to where Ron’s ashes had been placed just that afternoon. 

So many lost because of that stupid, stupid man and his overweening hubris. Her husband could be counted amongst the casualties, even though he died well after the war from a disease that might not have progressed had he not been injured in the Department of Mysteries battle, the Squib doctor had said as much. Soon the hot rush of anger at a long-dead villain was replaced by her own sense of loss.

Hermione hunched her shoulders against rushing pain that beat down on her, falling to her knees. He was _gone._ She would never again see his warm smile in the morning as he stretched and reached for her. They would never make love again and never spend a morning bickering, only to spend the afternoon shagging each other senseless. They would never make love again. She could only visit the scent that he had left on his clothes, and that too would fade with time, even with the stasis spell she cast over a few of his well-worn Canons shirts. Perhaps the pain of his loss would fade too, but she couldn’t envision a time when her heart didn’t break with each moment she had to acknowledge he wasn’t there to cheer her on, check her pride with a joke, or make a pointed comment about just how mental she was.

The afternoon light fell gradually and finally Hermione rose. Minerva stood at the top of the hill, a sentinel allowing her favourite former student a moment’s privacy. 

As she looked one last time at the tomb, a silver moth flitted between the flowers left that day for Ron. It was early in the season for the creature, and Hermione watched it flutter to her, landing on her hand before taking off for warmer climes. She thought she could feel warmth where its feet had touched her, and it seemed that the heat radiated through her body, wrapping her as snugly as two strong arms. 

She finally left, her feet lighter on their journey back up the hill. She had her life to live now, and she would, she promised him, just as he had told her to do.

***

31 December, 2001

Draco leaned against a column in the ballroom of Malfoy Manor. His son, Scorpius, was upstairs being cared for by a cadre of ecstatic house elves. It was the first time he’d visited his ancestral home since his split from Astoria in August. His reception by his parents before the ball had been frosty to say the least. Of course they had fussed over their grandchild, and hinted that they would welcome them both back in the Manor should he ever need their aid, but Father’s smile never reached his eyes, and Mother bore her son’s presence with a vaguely worried air. 

No, Draco would not be moving back to the Manor any time soon, especially not if he expected to make his second forced marriage work.

He had two months to find a suitable half blood bride, and another six to get her up the duff. He said aloud, his tone acid, “Fuck.” 

He hadn’t even begun to look. With his son and his work taking up much of his time, what little he had left he spent with the Luna and Rolf. They were slated to present their paper at the conference of European Cryptozoologists in July, and their research, while engrossing, was slow going. Who knew that the Muggles were so far ahead of wizards in their understanding of the processes of life?

The noise of conversation surged around him, a high, irritating laugh sounding over the hubbub of the party.

His face screwed up in a painful grimace. He hadn’t realised that Romi and her paunchy, fifty-something billionaire husband would be in attendance. He’d avoided any contact with her for weeks. As of late she had become clingy and demanding, and he just didn’t have the time, or the will, to attend to her growing list of demands. She was still pouting that he hadn’t told her about his divorce. As if the silly bitch couldn’t read the huge write up the _Prophet_ had done on it. Both he and Astoria’s names had been mired in scandal since she’d lefte in August, a week after the birth of their son. Speculations of Astoria’s purported perversions aside, Draco hadn’t fared well, even if he had been the more sympathetic of the two. Astoria had missed it all, being ensconced in Muggle New York with her ‘wife.’ 

Not that the his gold-digging paramour would give up her wealthy husband for him. The Malfoy’s social cache and wealth just didn’t stand up to the war-profiteering wizard on which she had hooked her star. It was just as well. Even with his new-found sense of honour, Draco would no more marry that bitch than he would seriously consider becoming bosom friends with the Dark Lord. 

No, Romilda’s charms, as considerable as they were, had worn thin long ago. Eventually he would have to break it off with her, especially if he was going to try to make a go of whatever marriage he was forced into. If he had known she would be in attendance this evening, he wouldn’t have...

He cut off the thought. He had to be here tonight, or Father would make good on his threat to cut him off until he danced attendance to the Malfoy name like the good little boy he was. Too bad the Scamanders, his only friends, weren’t high enough on Father’s VIP scale to merit an invitation to this little bit of torture. Rolf would be oblivious to most of the social jockeying, but Luna, with her surprisingly adept, if misty, view of the sociological workings of wizarding society, would give Draco a laugh. 

Father passed close by, his smile warm as he spoke with a gesticulating matron that Draco didn’t recognise. 

_The mad bastard could be pleasant to people he didn’t care about_ , Draco thought sourly, but was still given to outbursts of violent temper with those he loved. It was one reason he had kept his son away from the Manor for so long. He didn’t trust his father any longer. He wished there was a way to convince his mother return to the Dower House. He still worried for her safety.

The small orchestra began tuning their instruments in preparation for the night’s dance. Dinner was over, an excruciating event Draco had missed since his son needed his bottle at the same time, but the dancing would go on all night. If he was lucky, he would be able to miss the traditional midnight kiss. He wouldn’t put it past Romilda to make a beeline straight for him, appearances be damned. 

Draco snagged a glass of tepid champagne just as the crowd parted for the first dance. A dress that looked like spun glass and gold caught his attention, and he admired the willowy figure and elegant café au lait toned back of it's wearer. The woman's chaotic curls, gracefully arranged, exposed her swan-like neck, a neck Draco would have liked to explore with lips and tongue. As this thought surfaced, Potter appeared at her side, drink in hand, sliding one arm around her slim back and turning them toward an unseen companion. 

"Well, well, well," Draco mused to himself, "Saint Potter's halo seems to have slipped. Wonder what the She-Weasel will think of this."

Not that Draco intended to tell, but he would pay as many Galleons as it took to be a fly on the wall when the notoriously hot-tempered Weaslette found out about this. Draco smirked and took another sip of the substandard shite his father was pushing off on the undiscerning masses. 

 

It was then that the woman turned her face towards Potter and Draco’s heart seemed to stutter to a halt, only to start pounding painfully a moment later.

“Granger.” No, it was Mrs Granger-Weasley a respected member of society and a noted Healer responsible for several acts of public compassion. He seemed to remember something about the Weasel dying recently.

Perhaps...

Without volition he felt his feet leading him toward her. Obviously, as a member of the family, it would be remiss of him not to pay his respects to her and the Weaslette who was the third person in the group… okay and Potty too. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would not miss the traditional midnight kiss, and delicately enquire about how long she was given to grieve for her ginger rodent before she was forced to breed. Even if neither of them would consider each other marriage material, a small fling wouldn’t hurt either of them, would it?

As he passed yet another house elf with a heavily laden tray, he downed the rest of the champagne and put the empty flute on it. He wouldn’t have Granger thinking he was once again smashed out of his head as he approached her. He might be a little tipsy, but he wasn’t sodden, not even close to it.

"DRACO! Darling boy!" Romilda screeched, causing a hush to ripple through the crowd. As Romi made her unsteady way toward him, it was obvious she had imbibed a great deal more than was politic. He froze, horrified, as the Potters and Granger turned toward the commotion."

“Madam Wenlock, how pleasant to see you once again,” Draco said stiffly. “Perhaps you would kindly introduce me to your husband.”

He found himself suddenly assaulted by overly large tits and an armful of his sodden paramour. Her husband glowered behind her as she nestled into Draco’s chest. “Sod my husband! He’s boooo-ring. You’re my sexy ickle Drakey. I want my New Year’s kiss.”

 

Draco heard his Father’s cold voice behind him. For the first time since he was a child, his bowels went watery and he felt as if he were going to fall from the shaking of his knees. “Wenlock, it seems your wife is not feeling well. Perhaps you would like to repair to a drawing room to let her refresh herself..”

Lucius’s heavy hand pressed down on Draco’s shoulder, his father’s fingers digging into his flesh as he pulled him from Romilda’s embrace. “Your mother is asking after you, Draco. Come. Now.”

As Lucius all but dragged him from the room, all Draco could see as he passed was Granger’s horrified disdain.Years of decorum, drilled into him by Lucius' rough tutelage, was the only thing keeping his features stony, rather than flaming, as they left the room.

 _Happy fucking New Year, you utter knob. You should have expected something like this and prepared for it,_ , he thought as the crowd’s noise surged around him. 

Once clear of the crush of the ballroom, Lucius pulled his son down an infrequently used corridor near the family library. He rounded on Draco, nostrils flaring and a white line around his lips, a sure indication of danger. "Is it not enough that you embarrass this family by failing to maintain an acceptable arrangement in your marriage? Must you embroil our name in countless public scandals?”

Suddenly Draco was once again a child of six, cowering in the shadow of his father’s wrath for some minor infraction. Furious resentment flared to replace the helplessness that the memory engendered. “I have little to do with embroiling our family name in scandal, if you remember, Father. You and Grandfather are the ones who tied our fate to a megalomaniac. Any damage I might do is merely decorative.”

Draco slid his wand towards his palm in preparation for the whatever curse his dear father might see fit to throw at him. He was, frankly, surprised at his own effrontery. He had never stood up so bravely to Father. Their relationship had always tended to be weighted towards Lucius winning any confrontation between them. Watching his father’s mouth work soundlessly, Draco added, “Or am I mistaken in the belief that you spent two stints in Azkaban over your love of a lost cause?”

“We will not speak of my past mistakes,” Lucius spat, his voice frigid, his gaze flinty as he spun Draco towards the door of the library. He leaned in, hissing in his son’s ear. “Your mother wishes to speak with you. I, however, am finished with you and your mewling incompetence. Do not cross my path again until you can find an acceptable mate and keep our name from further scandal.”

Draco sagged against the door for a moment, watching Lucius stride off, dreading the confrontation with his mother almost as much as he had this one. He gripped the crystal door handle and slid quietly into the library.

Mother sat on her customary Rococo settee, one given to her by her great-grandmother Black upon her betrothal to Father. Narcissa stifled a long suffering sigh as he approached, her patrician brow drawn into a slight frown as she rapped the silk cushion beside her sharply. "Sit."

Draco slid onto the seat with a susurrus of wool against silk. “I do apologise, Mother…”

She raised a slim, elegant hand without looking at him. “Your behaviour embarrassed me, Dragon. There are no words that you might utter that would alleviate my distress at this moment.”

She summoned a house elf with a wave of her hand. When the creature appeared Narcissa said, “Bring tea service for me and a pot of strong coffee for Master Draco.”

The elf reappeared with a heavily laden tray and sat it on the tea table. He waited patiently whilst his mother went through the ceremony of pouring them both their beverages. Once she passed him his cup of steaming coffee with just enough cream and sugar, she asked, “Do you know the reason I accepted your father’s proposal?”

“I take it, it wasn’t his ineffable charm?” Draco asked drily. “You certainly didn’t need the wealth, with the Black fortune you inherited after your sister claimed her blood traitor status so publically.”

Mother’s frown deepened slightly. “Don’t be crass, Darling, it’s an unattractive trait.”

 

Draco sipped his coffee, waiting politely for her to speak again. “I married your father because I knew he would never betray a vow to me once he took it.”

Draco scoffed, “Father? Pardon me if I find your faith in his ability to keep his oath to anyone if it didn’t suit his plans.”

 

“Nevertheless, he has never strayed in our marriage.” The unspoken subtext of her words were not lost on Draco.

“As I did, Mother?” Draco stood suddenly. “Were you aware that Father’s arrangement for me condemned me to a sexless marriage? That he paired me with a woman who could not stand a man’s touch, much less her own husband’s?”

“Oh, darling…” she began, but betrayed her own awareness of his ex-wife’s lack of interest when she would not meet his eyes. “We had hoped…there are many pureblood marriages that have similar problems, but we had hoped that she might accept her position and ultimately you. With your gentle nature, we were certain she would… but what about Scorpius, surely you...:”

“My son was conceived in a Muggle science lab. No mother, she continued her Sapphic relationship leaving me to burn.” Draco spat. “Is it any wonder that I, as you say, strayed? There was no true marriage between me and my supposed wife.”

“I suppose not,” she said primly. “But, son, that dreadful woman…don’t tell me you care for such an obviously inferior person.”

 

“I have no intention of pursuing a relationship with Madam Wenlock anymore than she intends to give up his money,” Draco answered tightly. “I had planned to beg off from our sexual liaison since I am forced, yet again, to find another spouse, even if she is one of my own choosing this time. I may have to enter into yet another loveless marriage, but I will make sure I find someone who can at least stand my touch. I’m not as faithless as what you seem to think me. When I have a true wife, I intend to keep my vows to her.”

Mother sniffed] and placed her delicate china cup on the tray. After fussing with its positioning for a moment, she said, “I hear your friend, Madam Scamander, has taken a position in the matchmaking service at the Ministry whilst she is _enceinte_. Please avail yourself of her services. I will not object to any match you choose, no matter their… lineage.”

Draco nodded tightly. “And you’ll deal with Father’s reaction if I choose someone he deems unworthy?”

“Neither of us want to lose you or our grandson, Dragon,” she answered. “I…. we… just want to see you content with your choice.”

She rose gracefully from her seat and he followed a split second later. “I have to attend to our guests now. I’ll make your apologies so that you might avoid further unpleasantness.”

 

As she passed him, she stopped and raised her face to him. He kissed her cheek, something he had not been allowed since before he left for his first year of school. He fought against the hot rush of relief as he watched her leave. Once she was gone, he apparated to his son’s temporary nursery. He had plans to make and he would not make them in this mausoleum to pureblood status.


	7. Starts and Full Stops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilliane for her hard work to make this chapter readable. Any mistakes remaining are my own.

“So, you see why I am quite desperate to avail myself of your services. You’re the best matchmaker the Ministry has.” Draco used his best wheedling tone to inveigle Luna into helping him. She had turned him down flatly twice since the beginning of January, saying he wasn’t ready for the matches she would make him. It was the first week of February, and he was becoming increasingly worried. It didn’t help that his office was made up of mostly grizzled Ministry career types of the male persuasion. He had very few opportunities to exchange more than a few words with witches during his day, and with his son needing care, his nights were spent with nappies and the various ick that came from babies.

He could admit that his readiness to utilize Luna’s expertise had much to do with the well-publicised Romilda kerfuffle that happened at his parents’ New Year party. He was also dismal at finding ways to leave his own flat and socialise, so there was that. Luna mostly had her own reasons for doing what she did, and sometimes they made no sense whatsoever to anyone but Luna.

Rolf, who sat next to Draco going over his field notes from the summer before, said, “Love, he really means it this time and we can’t lose our co-writer to the Muggle world if he fails to make a match.”

Luna continued to peruse her own notes, marking sections with a bright purple Muggle highlighting pen. “Yes, Dear, but the women my calculations have chose for him… I can’t imagine he’d be able to moderate himself around any of them at this point. The Nargles around him have gathered at his head chakra, where the truest heart lies. That’s a very troublesome spot for them to gather.”

 

Draco bit off the oath he wanted to utter. Her nonsense was wearing at the best of times, but basing his future on imaginary creatures and their position on his body was infuriating.

Rolf said, “Well, just have him do what you had me do when we were matched. I believe you said I was in similar straits at the time.” Rolf passed a sheet to his wife. “What does this rune mean?”

“That’s the one we designated for European bison population density in the Pleistocene, and that number is the distribution once _Homo sapiens sapiens_ and _Homo sapiens magicae_ fully penetrated the area 36,000 years ago.” Luna’s serene expression didn’t break as she added, ‘“Unfortunately, Draco has nargles that are also tied up in that bit of dark magic that’s left on his arm. If I were to have him do what you did, he might lose his ability to control himself around his perfect mate, and that won’t do for the poor girl at all. Nargles are very aggressive when it comes to sex.”

 

“Of course, Dear.” Rolf answered, “Now, why do we care what happened to European bison in the Pleistocene again? Their evolutionary biology has little to do with magical creatures.”

“But it does. Where do you think Minotaurs come from? The were the product of some very dark magic when a Greek priestess-queen fell in love with a very handsome bison. Their offspring are magical hybrids, and even though they are unable to reproduce, they do show a causal link between magical beasts and magical peoples of the ancient world,” Luna insisted.

“I was sure it was an auroch that started the Minotuarian line.” Rolf shuffled his papers around for a few minutes before throwing his hands up and summoning a book from seemingly thin air. An impressive bit of magic.

Draco leant back in his chair at the table. It was no use trying to understand Luna or convince her of how wrong-headed she was. He let his gaze rest on his son who lay sleeping in a cot in the corner of the room. Scorpius had been colicky lately. Draco had tried everything, even the foul potion his mother had made for him and sent. It was one that Snape had formulated for Draco as a child, but so far it had failed to work. Perhaps if Astoria had been able to send more breast milk the colic would have eased off, but she had been unable to pump much more milk than a teaspoon full the last week, and had informed him through the floo that he’d have to find an alternate source. The powdered Muggle formula he settled upon wasn’t sitting well with Scorpius. 

Draco was suppressing a yawn when Luna’s misty voice reached him, “Very well, Draco. I will present you with your three choices for a mate _if_ you will complete this list of tasks.”

 

Luna slid a slip of paper in front of him and he read it. Most were common sense suggestions such as getting more rest, hiring a nurse for Scorpius at least three nights a week, so that he could woo his future bride, and eating properly. There were a few on the list that were odd, but doable, but the last was ridiculous. He would most definitely NOT go to a Muggle shop and buy something called a bath bomb. “And if I don’t complete these fully?”

Luna merely smiled. “I’m sure there are other matchmakers who would take your case. They wouldn’t have your best interest at heart, however. Surely a little effort to ease your case of Nargles will be worth it.”

“Fine.” Draco spat. “When do you want me to be at your office?”

“Oh, I think Monday should be sufficient time to take care of most of those,” Luna answered breezily. 

“I’m certain I can fulfill the tasks to your satisfaction,” he said, folding the paper in two. It was then he noticed yet another task on the back of the paper. He unfolded it and read:

_Forgive yourself_

He was doomed to failure. He refolded the paper and slid it into his shirt pocket.

***

He had dutifully completed most of the assignment, even struggling in front of a mirror daily with silly affirmations of forgiveness to himself. He entered the waiting area of her office at the time she had owled him, and Luna had given him his first prospect. He had noticed Granger in the seating area, and was more than a little surprised that she would need help in the romance area since she was a war heroine and ever so famous. He was sure men would be lined up to fill the vacancy that her husband left when he up and died. Draco acknowledged her presence with an inclination of his head and opened yet another Muggle book on evolutionary biology which he had disguised as a wizarding thriller to halt the inevitable questions him reading such subject manner always raised. He certainly didn’t need Granger questioning his motives.

Draco’s first prospective partner was a rank disaster. The woman was exactly the type he should have liked, if he were still fifteen and the insufferable supremacist he was at that age. Draco had suffered through a dinner at _Le Coq et Le Taureau_ , a pretentious _nouvelle cuisine_ nightmare that had opened right after the war--her choice, not his-- and suffered through several hours of miniscule foods and displays of rank social climbing. He had seen his date to her door in Hogsmeade, and promptly gone to The Three Broomsticks and ate a meal that was not drizzled, drenched, or otherwise tortured, for his relatively simple palate. Draco, for all his family connections, was no gourmand when it came to the food he chose to eat, much to his father’s dismay and his mother’s quiet amusement.

He was set to meet Luna in her office the day after the date, in case it didn’t work out, but work had taken a strange turn with a minor kerfuffle involving house elves and goblins. That had given him time to finally get around to the bath bomb the evening before. He wished he had known that for some reason, Muggles were obsessed with glitter, since the bomb he had purchased, he found out too late, was laced with the stuff. Getting glitter out of places sparkly things should never be had been hard to do, but he believed he had finally done it with his sixth _Scourgify._ Granger entered the room a few moments after him. She gave him a scathing look and sat in the requisite uncomfortable chair found in all waiting areas across the world. After moments of heavy silence punctuated by his turning pages and deep sighs from her, Draco let his eyes slip from his book surreptitiously. She looked haggard and old beyond her years. Her glowing golden skin was bordering on sallow, and her hair, frightening at most times, was scraped back in a fuzzy, unattractive knot at the back of her head. She had placed a small, worn beaded bag on the chair beside her and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the institutional greenish walls of the room. 

Draco gave up all pretense of reading as he watched her. She was still utterly fascinating to him, for the same reasons as when they were children, but there was an added nuance to her now. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had matured or if it was her. It might be even the kiss they had shared in that dark Hogwarts corridor, but he doubted that. A single kiss couldn’t mean that much, could it?

 

He wondered once again what she thought about him. Had she forgiven him for his childish cruelties? Had she forgiven him for his attachment to a cause that would have her imprisoned or dead for the crime of merely existing? The stark words on the back of Luna’s list floated to the fore of his mind. _Could he ever forgive himself?_

“What is it, Malfoy?” Granger didn’t open her eyes as she spoke into the silence of the room. “I know you’re staring at me.”

“P-pardon?” Draco stuttered over the rapid beating of his heart. He could feel his face flush as he jerked his eyes back to the open book on his lap.

She lifted her head wearily, her eyes still closed. “I know you are looking at me. Stop it.”

“I am most assuredly not...looking at you.” Draco ruffled the pages of his book to punctuate his lie, hating the childish tone of petulance that crept into his voice as he added, “I’ve a perfectly interesting book I’m reading. You would know that if you deigned to look at _me_.”

Silence fell again and Draco returned to his book, but soon his attention slipped to her again. Why did she _have_ to be in the waiting room twice with him? Wasn’t it humiliating enough that he had to resort to imploring one of his only friends to find a suitable mate? No, the gods had decided he had to do his grovelling with an audience of one Hermione Granger.

“If anyone should stare it should be me. Did your latest conquest take you to a rave?” Granger began, but just then Luna’s office door glided open and Luna’s serene voice called his name. 

“What are you on about, Granger?” Draco shot back. “I had a perfectly boring evening with no emotional outbursts from my companion whatsoever.”

Draco snapped his book shut and as he rose, Granger said in a saccharine tone, “You have glitter all over your neck. Miss Perfectly Boring _must_ have been so much fun for you to overlook that.”

He slunk from the waiting area fuming that Granger could still drive him mad. He might also have said a few uncharitable words about Luna under his breath. Damn Granger and damn Muggles with their glitter bath bombs.

***

“Bloody fucking centaurs and their bloody fucking blood feuds!” Draco muttered as he stepped around a dawdling matron on her way to some official Ministry business.

She sniffed as he passed, hissing,“Youth these days! No sense of decorum!” 

Draco just couldn’t be arsed to care about his offense. He’d just exited the floo from Hogwarts, covered in soot, and had not been home since two that morning. To be honest, he was more than a little concerned about how the centaurs seemed to be being manipulated by an outside force. The same way the goblins had hinted at unrest in their ranks fomented by an outside, and as yet, unknown force, when Draco had taken his Ministry position last year. There had been Aurors to deal with and crime scenes to establish last night, and Draco had been called to intercede in the collection of evidence. His mother, thankfully, had floo’ed over straight away when he had called her for help with Scorpius. His childminder had only been gone for two hours since he’d returned from another disastrous date the evening before.

If Draco were honest with himself, that date was mostly what had him in a mood this morning. She had been worse than the last, with her inability to make a single decision on her own. Draco might have found that trait attractive once in his life, but he’d grown well past wanting to control someone else’s life, not since his own life had been so controlled during the war. No, he wanted no part of deciding someone else’s future again. The hour of sleep he’d managed had been littered with dreams about Luna in the dungeons and Granger being tortured. 

He shivered just as he reached the lift that would take him down to Luna for one more try at a match. It was Thursday morning, and he had less than a week to find a woman and convince her to marry him, before he was assigned a bride. He _had_ to make the next one work out. He would not give up his wand, nor would he marry a woman who was desperate enough to throw herself on the mercy of the Ministry. That would be as bad as letting his father choose another bride for him.

He stepped into a blissfully empty lift, and just as he reached for the button of his floor, a hand attached to the one person he wanted to avoid most in the world kept the doors from closing. Granger shot him a tense smirk as she moved to the back of the cubicle and proceeded to become thoroughly occupied by the intricacies of the woodwork. Draco didn’t need to ask her what floor, but he did anyway. “Matchmaking Office again?”

She gave a sharp nod, her hair poofing up where it rubbed against the back wall, looking discomfited as the lift lurched to a start and Draco shifted his position next to her. 

He drew a deep breath. “It was a glitter bath bomb.”

 

“Wha--- Pardon?”

Why did she always make him so… unlike himself? He was a Malfoy. He was rich, suave, and above all else, well-spoken, yet every time he said anything to her, he felt as if he were thirteen again, with over processed hair and a sneer that covered so much insecurity. “The glitter on my neck. I didn’t have a smashing time with my date. Luna… she told me to get a bath bomb at one of those Muggle shops to pamper myself… it was part of an assignment…but it had glitter in it. So, there it is…my explanation.”

Granger’s eyes slipped sideways and up to his neck. It looked as if she was fighting a losing battle with a small but genuine smile. She finally said, “You don’t owe me an explanation, Malfoy.”

“No, but I don’t like to look barking, at least not in public.” Granger covered her mouth with her hand, a tiny hiccough of laughter escaping her before she could stop it. Her sudden movement wafted the most delicious odor of patchouli and citrus his way. 

Suddenly he didn’t want to meet with Luna, and he most certainly didn’t give a rat’s arse if he lost his wand. All he wanted was to smell Granger, maybe talk to her, and certainly do much more with her than was safe to think of in a tight space. He slammed his hand on the next floor’s button, and the lift jerked to a halt, the doors opening as Granger squawked in outrage.

He stuck his hand out to stop the doors from closing. “Come on, Granger. Let’s skip our appointment with Luna. You and I both know that we aren’t the type of people her arithmancy will work for. Let’s make our own date this time. We can’t do worse than the Ministry has.”

 

She bit her lip indecisively and took a hesitant step towards the door. The lift gave a long, protesting groan and she scuttled out, her hand now on his arm. She pulled him along with her into the mostly abandoned hallway. 

“This is mad.” she said, as he propelled her down the hall, one hand on her back. 

Draco answered with a laugh. “It is, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t ever felt this free, or at least not since he was a child. Possibilities bloomed with each step they took away from their obligations and sadness. Whatever came of the day, at least Draco had done what he wanted to do for once, not what was expected. Laughter bubbled up. He was going to make the most of this afternoon with Granger, and he’d worry about his obligations later. For now, he just wanted to be a normal young man, with an attractive, intelligent woman on his arm. He wouldn’t ask for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please take the time to let me know what you think.


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